The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET (149 page)

The others were milling around the table and talking in low voices while helping themselves to food. Ben carried his
coffee over to the window and stood with his back to them, gazing out at the view.

‘What the fuck?’ said a voice behind him, hostile and challenging.

Ben turned slowly. He’d known who it was, and he’d been right. Pete Neville was standing glaring at him, a coffee in one hand and a Danish pastry in the other. ‘What’s the fucking idea of stirring things up, mate?’ he went on.

Ben gave him a look and said nothing.

‘Watch it, Pete,’ Woodcock called out from across the room. ‘He might try and break your arm.’

‘Like to see him fucking try,’ grunted Morgan.

‘So tell us, mate,’ Neville said. ‘What the fuck you trying to do, get us all the boot?’

Ben looked at him. ‘A tip. If you’re going to come on the tough guy, try not to do it when you’ve got custard all over your chin.’

Neville quickly wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

Ben turned to address them all. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, people. I’m CO here, and you’re going to answer to me and follow my lead.’

The team watched him sullenly.

‘And from now on, Neville,’ Ben said, ‘you keep your mouth shut. If you speak to me, it’s in reply to a direct question. Otherwise I’ll shut it for you. Understood?’ He finished his coffee and put down the empty cup. ‘Now, Neville, you’ve just earned yourself a job. Go and collect the popguns from Rolf. Take them over to our quarters. Check everything’s working and get them ready for this afternoon. You’re responsible for them from now on. Any complaints, mate?’

Neville didn’t say a word.

‘Better,’ Ben said. Then he walked past them all and left the refectory.

Ben spent a little while before lunch wandering about the estate, checking things over and familiarising himself with the layout. Peacocks strutted over the immaculate green lawns. Attached to the château’s west wing was a large glass-domed conservatory filled with exotic plants, with an ornate fountain in its centre and a bronze statue of the Roman sea god Neptune standing amid the waves, his trident pointing upwards. Ben stopped to look at it, then walked on. Bees hummed around the flowers in the formal gardens. Gardeners in white uniforms were mowing the velvety turf of the tennis courts. Through a gated archway Ben could see the neatly-trimmed entrance to a maze. The sky was blue, and even with the mountain breeze the sun was beating down hard.

A little further on, he heard angry shouts in the distance, and followed the sound to see a man he instantly knew was Otto, heir to the Steiner fortune, storming angrily across the golf course. In a business suit, he might have passed for a younger version of his uncle, but the check trousers, the brightly coloured golf shirt and the jaunty white cap on his head made him appear faintly clownish. A miserable-looking caddie stumbled along after him. Otto turned and started raging at him, then grabbed a club from the golf bag, threw
it clumsily at him and screamed at him in German to fuck off.

Any other time, Ben might have smiled to himself at the spectacle. Not today. The whole situation was a mess. He didn’t want to be here, sandwiched between a prickly despot and a team of idiots. All he wanted was to be back home at Le Val. Even the idea of sitting at the desk doing paperwork seemed deeply attractive at this moment. And he’d brought the whole thing on himself.

Ben watched Otto stamp off towards his private villa, then turned and carried on, thinking about what a difference there was between the two Steiner men. He wondered how they got on.

As he walked, he spotted a building that made him stop and look. Nestling in among the trees, its stained glass windows caught the sunlight.

It was a little grey stone chapel. If the Steiners had had it built specially for them, it was the best reproduction of an eighteenth-century church that Ben had ever seen. He felt himself drawn towards it. Pushed open the studded oak door and walked in.

It was cool inside, and his footsteps echoed off the tiled floor. He wandered up the aisle, between the rows of glistening pews, and stopped in front of the altar. The light from the stained glass windows shone down on him. He looked up at the statue of the crucified Jesus on the back wall behind the altar. Sighed and closed his eyes.

He hadn’t prayed for a long time.

Lord, I know you and I have had our differences. I know I’ve been inconstant and done a lot of bad things
.

He paused.

But please give me the strength to see this through. Give me the patience not to tell them all to go to hell, drive straight

back to Le Val and make sure Rupert Shannon spends the next year sucking his meals out of a tube
.

He opened his eyes. It hadn’t quite come out the way he’d intended. A little dark, perhaps. But it would have to do, and he hoped God understood. He turned away from the altar and walked back up the aisle feeling just a little lighter. Maybe prayer was good for you after all.

As he headed back towards the house, he heard the piano again. This time he recognised the piece. Bartók. Harmonically dissonant and jarring on the ear, it was the kind of music he liked. And Silvia Steiner played it beautifully, as though she really understood it.

The music was drifting from a pair of open French windows. He walked towards them, paused to listen and peered inside.

She was sitting at her concert grand in a large white room. A little way from the piano stool a gilt harp, and nearby a cello case was lying on the floor. There was a sofa piled with cushions, that looked as though people actually sat on it. In one corner was a messy stack of music books and manuscripts, and tatty rugs were arranged ad hoc on the floor. Flowers and plants spilled out of vases everywhere. Ben sensed that this was Silvia Steiner’s personal haven, cosy and inviting, untainted by her husband’s cold, rigid formality.

She noticed Ben standing there in the window, lifted her hands from the keys and smiled. ‘Hello again.’

‘Please don’t stop,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I was just listening to the Bartók.’

Her smile broadened. She got up from the piano stool and walked round the side of the instrument towards him. ‘In this house, most people keep their distance when I’m playing Bartók. Especially Max. He says it makes him feel tense and uncomfortable.’

‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I find it relaxing.’

She laughed, and considered him for a moment with the same curious look she’d given him before. ‘You’re an unusual man,’ she said.

‘Not so unusual,’ he replied.

‘I’m sorry my husband spoke sharply to you earlier on.’ Catching Ben’s expression of surprise, she added, ‘Heinrich told me. You know, Max has been under a lot of stress lately with all that’s been happening. These awful terrorists. Pressure of the business. Family problems.’ She looked out of the window, across the golf course to where Otto had been a few minutes earlier, and Ben thought he could see a look of sadness pass over her face. ‘Max isn’t normally difficult to deal with,’ she went on. ‘He’s really a wonderful man.’

Ben found that hard to believe. ‘I understand that Herr Steiner is under a lot of stress. It’s perfectly normal, in these circumstances.’

‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ she said. ‘You seem like a very kind, decent person.’

Ben didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He glanced down at his feet.

‘I believe you live in France?’ she asked.

‘Normandy.’

‘But you’re English.’

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Half English, half Irish. Before I moved to France I had a place in Galway, by the sea.’

‘How beautiful. You must miss it.’

‘I do, sometimes. But life moves on.’

‘It certainly does.’ She sighed. For an instant she seemed far away, then caught herself. ‘Are you sure we’ve never met?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Quite sure?’

‘Pretty sure. Why?’

She shook her head slowly, as if trying to place him. Her eyes seemed to search his. ‘It’s strange. Somehow I feel that I know you. You seem terribly familiar to me.’

‘I have a good memory for faces,’ he said. ‘If we’d ever met, I would remember.’ He smiled. ‘Now I’d better leave you to your music. I have to get back to my work.’

After he’d finished his rounds of the estate and made all the mental notes he needed, Ben went back to the security team’s quarters. He got there just as lunch was being served. Once he’d checked that Neville had sorted out the Flash-Balls as instructed, he grabbed a ham salad baguette and a bottle of mineral water and went back to his room to eat alone once again.

As he ate, he could hear the laughter of the others over the blare of the TV. He shut the noise out of his thoughts, still angry with himself. When he’d finished eating, he picked up his phone and dialled the number for Le Val. Jeff answered.

‘How are things going?’

‘Not much to report,’ Jeff said. ‘Brooke’s still here, getting ready for her lecture. She thought she might as well hang around.’

‘I ought to be there,’ Ben said glumly. ‘I should be taking care of things.’

‘It’s just a bunch of insurance brokers wanting to be taught about hostage psychology and ransom negotiation techniques,’ Jeff said. ‘Nothing we can’t cope with ourselves. You sit tight and we’ll see you when we see you.’

‘Any word on His Nibs?’

‘Still in hospital. I reckon the bastard’s malingering there. Getting paid for doing fuck all. Private room at our expense, probably ordering champagne round the clock. I tell you, he’s having a whale of a time with this.’

It wasn’t what Ben wanted to hear.

Just after one, the team filed back outside, carrying their clumsy weapons. There was no conversation between them as they made the ten-minute walk to the circular concrete helipad at the west side of the estate.

Ben and the team didn’t have long to wait before the beat of rotor blades crept up in the distance and the two choppers appeared over the tree line. The helicopters drew quickly nearer, until they were hovering right overhead and settling down to land, their downdraught flattening out a wide circle in the lawn surrounding the helipad. Both craft were immaculate, the bright sun gleaming off identical red paintwork and the crisp white graphics of the Steiner company logo on their flanks. With his clothes and hair fluttering in the windstorm, Ben could see the men inside – a pilot and co-pilot for each chopper, all wearing matching red uniforms.

The helicopters touched down, skids flexing gently as they took the weight. The screech of the turbines dropped down to a roar and the rotors gradually slowed to an idle. The copilots jumped down and opened the rear hatches. Ben could see how much plusher Steiner’s personal helicopter was inside. Max Steiner was clearly a man who liked to make a statement.

Only when the noise and the wind had diminished a minute later did their employer make his appearance. The golf buggy zipped across the lawns towards them, the billionaire in the front passenger seat and Dorenkamp riding shotgun, clutching a black leather attaché case on his lap. Ben checked his watch. It was exactly quarter past one.

Steiner climbed down from the buggy, straightened his suit and, with Dorenkamp following behind him, walked purposefully towards the lead chopper. Climbing into the rear, he turned and shot Ben a look that said, ‘What are you waiting for?’

Ben waved the team towards the second craft, paused while Dorenkamp climbed on board, then hauled himself up through the hatch carrying his Flash-Ball. The seats were deep and comfortable. Ben slipped the rubber bullet gun into a space beneath his. Then the co-pilots closed the hatches of the two aircraft, like chauffeurs shutting limo doors. They ran round to take their places and put on their headsets as the shriek of the turbines started up again and the rotors began to spin faster.

In less than a minute, the ground was dropping away from them and Ben watched the château and surrounding estate shrink to the size of a model. The chopper climbed straight up to four hundred feet, then dipped its nose and accelerated hard towards the horizon. The cabin was well insulated against the noise. Ben barely had to raise his voice to ask Dorenkamp where the aircraft were usually kept. The PA turned and replied that they were stored at a private hangar a few miles from the estate.

Ben nodded and said no more. Out of the window, hills and forests rolled by far below.

Steiner nudged Dorenkamp and pointed at the back of the co-pilot’s head. Ben wondered what he was doing, then saw that he was pointing at the ring the man was wearing in his left ear. Steiner leaned towards Dorenkamp and Ben heard him say in German, ‘If that young man wants to continue working for me, he’ll have to dispense with the decorations.’

‘Must be new on the staff,’ Dorenkamp replied. ‘I’ll have a word with Rolf.’

The two men went on to discussing the agenda for the upcoming conference, while Ben watched the alpine scenery. Twisting round in his seat, he could see the second chopper keeping pace behind them, the shapes of his team just visible through the side window.

Just as he was about to turn and face forward again, he saw the other aircraft suddenly give a violent judder, bank and peel off to starboard. Over the noise he heard the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot, and from somewhere down in the rolling fields below the yellow-white flame of a muzzle flash caught his eye as more shots were fired. Then another. Two shooters, using high-velocity semi-auto rifles.

It was happening already.

The rear helicopter veered away sharply, rapidly shrinking into the distance. Steiner’s pilot banked the lead craft hard in the opposite direction, dropping altitude and heading for a thick patch of woodland on the port side.

‘Gott in Himmel,’
Steiner yelled as the floor tilted dramatically and his attaché case went tumbling away from him. Dorenkamp’s hands gripped the arms of his seat, fingers white against the red fabric.

Ben knew immediately what was happening. The shooters on the ground weren’t trying to bring the choppers down, but to divert their course and isolate Steiner’s helicopter from its escort. It was a crude form of hijack. The question was, how did their attackers plan on forcing the chopper to the ground without shooting it down?